“That’s kind of suspicious, isn’t it?” said Wes.
“Not necessarily. I can think of a few reasons someone might not return a phone call. But there’s more here.” I picked up the second tabbed document. It was a blog post Penny Delacroix had published four months ago.
Wes and I read the post together. The bulk of the piece was Penny lamenting the cost of housing in Chicago and her difficulties in finding a suitable roommate. Then we came to the part the P.I. had highlighted.
I almost convinced my arty friend to move in with me, but then she bailed, the wuss. Lana T. decided to leave Chi-town altogether.
Supposedly she missed the farm-fresh air back home. If I don’t find a roommate soon, I may have to follow her . . .
Wes looked up at me with a spark of excitement in his eyes. “So, this Penny person does know Lana. I can’t believe the investigator didn’t try harder to reach her.”
I didn’t know how hard the investigator had tried, but I did know one thing: I would have to try harder. Considering Wes’s interest, how could I not?
Chapter Five
There’s nothing quite like a professional mani-pedi to make a gal feel pampered—and, at the same time, as trapped as a parrot in a pet store. With freshly painted fingers and toes, I couldn’t get up and leave, couldn’t browse on my phone or send text messages. I couldn’t even unwrap the protein bar in my purse to appease the rumbling in my stomach. At least I had Farrah to distract me from my hunger. When Wes dropped me off half an hour ago, she was waiting for me in front of the Color Me Happy Nail Salon. Now we sat side by side in soft leather vibrating chairs. We would be heading out for dinner and drinks as soon as our nails were good and dry.
In truth, I felt a little reluctant to go out on an evening when Wes happened to be home. Usually I had girls’ nights with Farrah when Wes was working at one of his two jobs that sometimes required evening hours—as a part-time bartender and a full-time photojournalist. But I had agreed to make an exception tonight. Farrah was all in a state. She was having man troubles.
“What should I do?” she asked. “I really like Randall, but I don’t know if he’s the one. You know?”
Randall was another partner at the law firm where I used to work. Farrah was a lawyer, too, but she had decided long ago to become a legal software salesperson instead of a practicing attorney. It better suited her outgoing personality and gave her more time for extracurricular pursuits. After dating Randall for a few months, she’d put on the brakes because of his long work hours. Recently, he’d called her bluff by agreeing to make more time for her, and it was freaking her out.
“You think he wants to get serious?” I asked.
“You tell me. Last night, I was complaining about how he stays so late at the office, and you know what he said? He said if I wanted to see more of him, we should move in together!”
“And he meant it?” Randall was known for his ironic sense of humor. He was prone to bursts of good-natured sarcasm.
“Yeah! I think he surprised himself, but once he said it, he started to warm to the idea. His house is bigger than my apartment, and he said it could use a womanly touch.” She paused and blew on her fingernails. “He might have been teasing about the last part.”
“So, what did you say?”
“I changed the subject. I’m not ready for that conversation right now. Especially considering who I ran into at the gym yesterday morning.”
“Who’d you run into?”
“Three guesses.”
I didn’t need three guesses. The situation with Randall immediately called to mind another guy Farrah had pushed away as soon as things turned serious. And he worked at the gym.
“Jake?”
“You got it. I hadn’t seen him in ages. It was really awkward. I mean, we were both cool, but he gave me that soulful, puppy-dog look that always left me feeling guilty for no reason.”
“Mm,” I said, noncommittally. I’d always felt a little bad about how things had ended between Farrah and Jake. He was a nice guy, and she’d broken his heart more than once. But if he wasn’t the one, he wasn’t the one.
“Oh, and get this,” she said. “I might have a stalker. Probably another ex-boyfriend.”
“What do you mean?”
“Earlier this week, somebody broke into my mailbox. They must have picked the lock, because the little door was hanging open when I got home, and I know it was closed when I left.”
“Was your mail stolen?”
“I don’t know if anything was taken. I don’t think so. The box was still full of bills and stuff. But some of the envelopes seemed wrinkled. Anyway, then last night, Ed, the super at my building, told me he saw a guy messing around my car. He ran off when Ed yelled at him.”
“What was the guy doing?”
“I don’t know. Ed couldn’t tell. He also couldn’t describe the guy except to say he was older than a kid and younger than an old man. Ed isn’t very observant.”
“That’s helpful,” I said dryly. “But maybe the dude was just a carhead or something. You know, into Jeep convertibles.”
“It’s possible,” she conceded. “But I also think someone has been following me.”
“What? Really?”
“Yeah. Like just a little while ago, I noticed a shiny black coupe behind me—I think it was a Bentley. It had tinted windows and was very mysterious-looking. It was on my tail for a few blocks, turning everywhere I turned.”
“What did you do?”
“I parked, and it kept going.” She shrugged. “It might have been a coincidence. But you don’t believe in coincidences, do you? Or is it that there are coincidences, but they always mean something? I can never remember.”
I smiled. In spite of her quintessential bubbly-blonde persona, Farrah was a very smart, down-to-earth woman. She was fascinated by my Wiccan practices and respected my beliefs, even if she didn’t one-hundred-percent understand them. But I thought I knew what was really going on here, and it didn’t have anything to do with uncanny coincidences. Farrah was bored. In the past, she and I had had some fun and frights as an accidental—and very amateur—crime-fighting duo. It definitely brought an element of excitement to our lives. I hadn’t had a chance yet to tell her about the multiple mysteries Crenshaw had laid at my feet.
Speaking of feet, the proprietor of Color Me Happy tested our toes and declared us good to go. We slipped on our sandals, paid the woman, and stepped outside into the late-afternoon sun.
“Shall we go on to the Loose now?” Farrah asked. “Or do you want to—”
“Yes,” I said, cutting her off. “I didn’t have lunch. I’m more than ready for food and drinks. Where’s your car?”
“It’s in the lot around the corner. I was browsing in the shoe shop while waiting for you earlier.”
As we made our way to the small municipal parking lot, I asked Farrah if we should stop off at her place and take a cab to the bar. She thought about it, then shook her head. “I’m not gonna overindulge tonight. I have to get up early tomorrow. I’m meeting Randy for—”
She stopped short, staring at the wheels of her Jeep.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. Then I saw it for myself. “Oh, jeez. Who would do such a thing?”
Someone had slashed both of her rear tires, not once but twice, to make a large letter X in each tire.
“A creepy stalker, that’s who! Now do you believe me?”
“I never doubted you,” I murmured.
At least, not anymore.
* * *
By the time the police, a tow truck, and a cab all arrived, and we’d made all the necessary statements, Farrah and I were both ready for a stiff drink. We sat across from each other at a scarred wooden table in the back of our favorite night club, the Loose Rock, and clinked beer mugs.
“Here’s to roadside assistance,” Farrah proclaimed. “I mean, I could have changed one tire myself, but who carries two spares? Nobody, that’s who.”
“You would h
ave changed a tire with a fresh manicure?”
“Well, no. Not if I could help it. Hey, do you think the creep following me saw me go into the nail salon and wanted me to mess up my nails? Talk about adding insult to injury.”
“Mm, I don’t know. I think you’re giving the perp too much credit. Anybody who engages in juvenile property destruction probably isn’t that bright.”
“Juvenile? I’ve dated a few boys who fit that description.”
I couldn’t argue with her there. Instead of replying, I selected another marinated vegetable kabob from the platter in between us and slid the veggies off the skewer and onto my plate. Farrah absently reached over and plucked a piece of zucchini from my plate and popped it into her mouth.
“I wonder who he is.” She squinted across the empty dance floor, as if the answer might materialize in thin air. “I haven’t rejected any guys lately . . . have I?”
I shrugged. “You shouldn’t assume it’s a guy. It could be a jealous woman. Maybe you attracted someone’s wandering eye.”
“Ooh, good point.” Rummaging in her purse, she pulled out a lipstick, an eyeliner pencil, and an eyebrow comb, before looking up with a frown. “Do you have a pen?”
“Yeah, I think so. But do you really have enough names to start a list? Tell me more about your run-in with Jake.”
“Jake? It couldn’t have been him. He’d never do anything to hurt me or my car.”
“You’re probably right, but that’s not what I meant. Why did running into Jake make you question your relationship with Randall?”
“Oh, look who’s here!” said Farrah, conveniently avoiding my question. “It’s your witchy friends.”
I followed her gaze and was pleasantly surprised to see Mila Douglas, the owner of Moonstone Treasures. Mila was a Wiccan High Priestess and a mentor to me, as well as a dear friend. She was with her young assistant, Catrina Miller. They both appeared unusually disheveled.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mila in here,” Farrah commented. “I thought she only drank tea.”
“Not always,” I said, waving at the pair. “Though you’re right this isn’t her usual hang.”
As Farrah and I moved over to make room for the newcomers, I took a closer look. Mila’s peasant skirt was twisted, and the scarf wrapped around her brunette shag was askew. Catrina’s flower-power T-shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, baring her narrow shoulders. With her G.I. Jane buzzed haircut and men’s work boots, she looked like a pixie mechanic. In fact, the oily black smudges on both women made it look like they had just come from an auto repair shop instead of an herbal-scented New Age gift shop.
“What happened to you guys?” I asked.
“Nothing a couple strong females can’t handle,” said Catrina, flexing her twiglike arms.
“We’ve been changing tires,” explained Mila.
Farrah’s mouth dropped open. “Your rear tires? Were they slashed?”
“That’s right,” said Mila. “Luckily, Catrina’s spare fit my car, since I had only one.”
“The same thing happened to my car!” said Farrah. “It was in the lot at Main and Willow. Where was yours?”
“In the alley behind the shop, at Main and Magnolia.”
“The cops told us Mila’s wasn’t the only one,” put in Catrina. “They think it was some punk bent on destruction. I’m calling him Xorro—spelled with an X instead of a Z. Get it?”
Mila sighed and used a napkin to pat her face. Farrah still looked dumbfounded. I nudged her and smiled. “There goes your stalker theory. That should be a relief, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.” She appeared doubtful.
“That thing with your mail was probably not what it seemed either,” I went on. “You probably didn’t close the mailbox door tight last time you opened it. It happens.”
A waitress came to take Mila’s and Catrina’s orders and refill our drinks. When she left, I turned to Mila. “Did you close the shop early because of what happened to your car?”
“No, Steve is minding the shop. Catrina and I were heading to the craft fair in Fynn Hollow. Our plans changed when we saw my car. Luckily, the fair is going on tomorrow, too.”
“That reminds me. Isn’t Applefest coming up soon?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mila. “It falls on Mabon weekend this year, and Moonstone will have a booth.”
“What’s Mabon?” asked Farrah.
Mila, Catrina, and I all spoke at once.
“It’s the Witch’s Thanksgiving,” I began.
“It’s a harvest celebration,” said Mila.
“It’s a time of mystery and death, when darkness overtakes the light,” said Catrina.
We all looked at Catrina, and she raised her hands in defense. “What? It is!”
“You’re right,” Mila conceded. “We often talk about balance and equilibrium at the Autumn Equinox, but it’s true that this time ushers in the dark half of the year. It’s a prime time for reflection and planning.”
“I always feel close to the Goddess in early autumn,” I said. “I think this is the most sensual season. There’s such an abundance of sights, scents, tastes—everything.”
“Absolutely,” said Mila. “We can thank the Goddess Pomona for our abundant gardens and flourishing orchards.” Chuckling, she added, “That’s what makes Applefest such a perfectly Pagan festival—unbeknownst to the town’s event planners!”
Farrah’s expression took on a dreamy quality. “I just love Applefest. All the yummy apple treats, and the music, and craft tables. We should go, Keli. We can make it a double date.”
“I’d love to,” I said, halfway wondering who Farrah intended to bring. “I’ll ask Wes to keep that day free.”
As we chatted, the bar started to fill up and become louder. An indie rock band took the small stage and began tuning their instruments. I looked over my shoulder to check them out, and when I turned back I spotted a new arrival to the bar. He scanned the room until he zeroed in on me and made a beeline for our table.
Farrah saw him, too, and sat up a little straighter, with an amused look on her face. “Well, if it isn’t Crenshaw Davenport the Third!” she said brightly. “What a surprise! Say, what’s your middle name? Let me guess. Crenshaw Maximillian Davenport.”
“No,” he said shortly. “Keli, may I have a word?”
Mila, ever the gracious one, smiled up at Crenshaw. “Why don’t you join us?” she asked.
Catrina grabbed a chair from a nearby table and plopped it at the end of our booth. As Crenshaw hesitated, the waitress returned with drinks for Mila and Catrina, then set a glass and napkin at the new place.
“Very well.” Crenshaw took a seat and folded his hands primly in his lap. He was still wearing the same suit he’d had on this morning, buttoned up as tightly as ever.
“What’s up, Crenshaw?” I took a sip of my beer, enjoying the mellow buzz I was beginning to feel. Something told me I should relish it while I could. Crenshaw appeared more uptight than usual.
“For one thing,” he began, “nearly all of the staff at Turnbull Manor have tendered their resignations. With ownership of the manor uncertain, they decided to seek employment elsewhere. Only Celia and one of the gardeners agreed to remain.”
“I can’t say I blame them,” I said. To the others, I explained that Crenshaw was the executor of Elaine Turnbull’s estate.
“Oh, I know that mansion,” said Farrah. “I attended a party there once. Gorgeous place.”
“Yes, well, I’d like to keep it that way,” said Crenshaw. “It’s way too big for one maid to keep clean, tidy, and properly functioning, not to mention stocked with food and necessities. There are twelve rooms in the main house, plus a number of outbuildings, including two guesthouses.”
I wanted to ask why the current residents couldn’t clean up after themselves, but Crenshaw was on a roll.
“To top it off,” he continued, “right after the staff quit, Celia asked me whether the upcoming gala would still be happening.
I asked her what gala, and she informed me that Elaine had agreed to host a fund-raising gala for the Edindale Arts Council this coming Friday. Perry Warren—the curator you met—suggested we have the event at the museum instead. However, the council wishes to keep it at the mansion and announce a special tribute to Elaine. Ray Amberly is also pushing to go ahead as planned. He said it’s what Elaine would have wanted.”
Catrina stared at Crenshaw, then rolled her eyes. “Rich people. Forgive me if I can’t muster up sympathy for their so-called problems.”
Mila remained silent, but Farrah leaned forward eagerly. “Can you get us tickets?” she asked. “A gala sounds fun! If it’s happening this Friday, all the arrangements must already be in place.”
“That’s true,” Crenshaw conceded. “At least, the caterers have already been hired and partially paid for. But that’s not the point. I’m trying to conduct an inventory and get the estate settled. I’m not sure it’s wise to have a bevy of strangers in the house, especially—” He broke off, as if weighing his next words.
“The caterers usually handle the cleanup,” Farrah pointed out. But I didn’t think that was what worried Crenshaw. He fixed me with a pleading look.
“Keli, the mansion has a lot of empty bedrooms. I’ve decided to stay there for a few days, and I’d like you to do the same. Please, I implore you, come and help me finish the inventory and search for the purported missing will.”
“Um, did I miss something?” asked Farrah. Mila and Catrina each raised their eyebrows.
“I thought you wanted me to find Lana,” I said. “That’s why you said you were hiring me. How am I supposed to look for her if I’m confined to the house?”
“You won’t be ‘confined,’” Crenshaw said. “The house would be your base of operations, as it were. And who knows? While there, you might pick up a clue as to Lana’s whereabouts.”
I opened my mouth to respond, then promptly closed it. I didn’t know what to say. I could easily have said no. I never agreed to commit one hundred percent of my time to this case, and I had plenty of my own work to keep me busy. Besides that, I had definitely picked up a strange vibe at Turnbull Manor.
Autumn Alibi Page 4